Spring Cleaning
by Rowen-bsg
Summary: Cleaning Colonial One after Baltar's reign as President.


**Spring cleaning**

_Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Battlestar Galactica or any of its characters. Pity.  
_

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Spring cleaning was an activity that had always filled Laura Roslin with satisfaction. From getting rid of unused things, to changing the decor of her apartment, there was something she'd always found therapeutic in the process. Something cleansing. Cleaning Colonial One after Gaius Baltar's reign as President was anything but therapeutic. Her respect for Baltar (which had started at close to zero) had dropped significantly, and was now hovering somewhere around the temperature of deep space. 

They had spent several days sorting through the office, trying to bring some order to Baltar's so-called "filing system". As far as they had been able to determine, the categories consisted of: "unread"; "ignored"; "requested by an attractive person, so may be worth actioning"; "requested by an attractive person and has been actioned"; and "of personal benefit to Gaius Baltar". Now she and Tory were elbow deep in the worst-of-the-worst: the Presidential bedroom.

"Another set of panties," Tory said, dangling a sheer peach G-string from the tip of a gloved finger before flinging it into a bag for clothes recycling. "How many does that make now?"

"Six…" Laura's voice was muffled, as her head was far under the bed. "No, seven." She backed out from under the bed brandishing another pair, this time a red lacy number which she lobbed into the waiting receptacle. "Seven pairs of panties, three bras, five teddies, a suspender belt and a… something else… I can't even imagine how to wear."

"Not to forget a number of condoms, both used and unused," Tory added. "Handcuffs, restraints…" She shook her head. "He must have raided a brothel for some of this stuff."

"He probably did," Laura agreed. She climbed laboriously to her feet, wiping the dust from her gloves. "That's all under the bed."

"Drawers next?" her aide suggested.

Laura nodded agreement, mentally steeling herself for what they might find.

At first it seemed more or less innocuous.

"Men's clothes," Tory reported. Into recycling. "Cigars, cigarettes, chocolate, lots of alcohol…. Some kind of pills?" She shook a small bottle, then brought out a box containing more.

"Pills to Cottle," Laura ordered, opening a cupboard. "Keep the alcohol. Chocolate, cigarettes and cigars can go to stores…" Her voice trailed off. "What have we here?"

In the cupboard was a camera. A camera mounted on a fixed tripod. A camera which was pointing toward the bed through a small hole in the side of the cupboard.

Tory looked from the camera to the bed and back again. "Oh Gods! You don't suppose he…?

"Of course he did," Laura replied, disgusted. A drawer within the cupboard revealed a collection of recordings, each neatly labeled with a name and a date.

Tory whistled, as she ran her finger along the labels, pausing on some well-known names. "Oh my. He did her. And her. And…" She looked at her boss speculatively. "You know some of this might be useful…"

Laura looked directly at her advisor, and shook her head decisively. "No, we don't want to go down that path. And I especially don't want to give the press an excuse to comment on the presidential bedroom."

The younger woman quirked an eyebrow at that, but didn't comment.

"Make sure it all gets irretrievably destroyed," Laura ordered. "All of it."

Tory had that expression on her face she got when she thought her boss was being politically naive, but didn't argue the point. Instead, she bundled the recordings into a "burn bag".

Laura glanced over at the bed itself. On her first night back on Colonial One after the nightmare that was New Caprica, she hadn't slept. There was pandemonium in the fleet: people trying to find loved ones, dealing with the injuries that had been sustained during the escape. And the sheer emotion of the day.

Too keyed up, she'd spent her time burning up the airwaves as she checked in with the Admiral, and locating what remained of her former staff.

The next day was just as full, as she instituted a fleet-wide census, and received constant reports and updates. That night, however, she took one look at the large luxurious bed Gaius Baltar had installed aboard the ship, and instead reclined in one of the chairs. Which is where she'd been sleeping until they had time to clean the bedroom.

Now she was staring at that bed, wondering if she could ever bring herself to sleep in it, knowing what had gone on there.

"Hmm." Tory's tone drew her attention.

Laura looked over the other woman's shoulder. Her aide was flipping through a stack of glossy photos, and stopped on a particularly… vivid… image.

"That isn't…" Laura began.

"Yes it is," Tory replied, her hand covering her mouth.

There was silence for a moment, then Laura took the photos and shoved them into the burn bag

"Make a note to get my desk disinfected, Tory"

"Of course, madam president."


End file.
